It's A Strange Life I Live, but It's What You've Decided
by Eliza Darling
Summary: Continuation of the epilogue "Bind Your Love." Fifteen years have passed since Rey announced her pregnancy. During the days before Hux's 50th birthday, Rey and Hux's daughter, Ava, wants to figure out the secrets her parents have been hiding... unsure of the results she might receive. Prompt fill for Reyux Week, Day 5: Secrets/Confessions.


**I was seriously supposed to post this a long ass time ago, but circumstances got the better of me with school and work and all. Also, this was supposed to be way shorter, but I just kept writing... and writing... and writing! I started this before Carrie Fisher's passing, so in this AU she's still alive and well. And after a while, I figured it really fit for the "Secrets/Confessions" day for Reyux week when the prompts were decided.**

 **This is a continuation of the epilogue "Bind Your Love," in which Hux becomes a Resistance prisoner of war after Rey falls pregnant with his child. Context for both this and "The Ties that Bind, the Ties that Break," would be preferable before reading this, but not required.**

" **It's a Strange Life I Live, But It's What You've Decided"**

Ever since I can remember, my father has always loved me. He's always given a smile, offered a hug, helped with any problem I've ever had with no hesitation. He still kisses my forehead goodnight, and he'll occasionally embarrass me with old pictures on his datapad.

So it makes it all the more difficult when I think about his past. No one ever tells me what he's done to get here. He's always been a prisoner of war since before I was born. Not that anyone would really know from glancing—Mother keeps a good eye on his behavior. We all live together on the Resistance Base. He's allowed to wander around, so long as someone's watching (usually it's me or Mother). He's not allowed to wield a weapon, or even touch one. He can't know any Resistance battle plans. He can't fly, unless someone else pilots him around (again, Mother). He never sports anything with the Resistance logo.

I think about the freedoms in my life, where Mother is teaching me to be a Jedi, just as her Master taught her. Mother taking me on flights as a child with Chewie, and I'm scrambling to press every flashing light. Somehow she was always able to fly while simultaneously holding my curious hands back. I always wanted to touch _everything_. BB-8's antenna, Papa's face, Chewie's fur, Mother's lightsaber—all when I was a toddler.

"Just like your mother," Papa would always comment. There was always a hint of a smirk evident in his voice, like he knew something about her that I couldn't know just yet.

I used to ask Mother about Papa's past when I could finally notice that sometimes my uncles (not in the _related_ sense, but in the "too close to my mother for me to _not_ call them that" sense), Finn and Poe, would treat him a bit differently, especially Uncle Finn. There was always a tension between them, an unshared history I could never place. They only greeted each other politely, only because Mother was around to defend Papa if things got heated. Other than that, they were rarely in the same room together. But Uncle Finn still hugs me when I see him, and we still have our weekly lunches together with Uncle Poe.

Mother used to say that Papa was on the wrong side, but something brought them together. Somehow, in this war, they fell in love. It's all I knew. And somehow, when he was captured, they had me, a child of the Resistance _and_ the First Order. It was all so vague, and Mother and Papa were just so _happy_ together that that was all I needed. She tells him she loves him all the time, and Papa shows it back by holding her hand, or brushing his hand on the small of her back. Sometimes he cooks us dinner because he has nothing better to do most days.

And sometimes Mother is out on missions for weeks at a time, and it's just the two of us. We're the redheaded duo in our secluded bubble. I'm too young to really know anything, and I hear Papa has to be kept out of the loop for political reasons and affiliation conflict. He cleans house, helps with whatever lessons he can, takes me out to watch sunsets… We gaze at the stars and wonder if Mother is looking at them, too, wherever she is, thinking about us. She checks in when she can, always gushing about how much she misses us. I remember these conversations when I was a toddler, and Papa's bouncing me around in his lap, and I'm grasping at Mother's holovid like I can somehow touch her from this far away. Now I think it's a bit embarrassing when she blows kisses at us, but she says I'll understand if I ever have kids one day. I look at Papa and he just says that I'm too young to have kids and he'll gladly risk his prisoner of war status to strangle anyone who dares touch me.

Mother is going to be home for Papa's birthday, though. He's turning fifty. I just turned fourteen. Mother is thirty-five.

I've asked her about the age difference.

"So… when I was born, you were twenty-one, and Papa was thirty-six," I state. It's just a matter of fact. "Fifteen years is a long time. I'm not even fifteen yet."

Mother sighs, like she's heard all this before. She tucks a stray strand of hair from my face. It's the same shade as Papa's, bright orange. Mother describes it as the color of a Jakku sunset, probably to make us feel better about the color. "Ava," she starts patiently, "I love your father for who he is, strange as it sounds to some of the others here on the Base. The age difference _never_ mattered to me when we first met, and it doesn't bother me now." She looks off to the side. I see a depth in her hazel eyes as she contemplates how to answer. "Sure, he's a bit older, greying a bit at the temples, but he's got this determination to him, and an unfathomable amount of love for you."

I can't help but smile at that. She looks back to me, a warm hand on my cheek. "Every day you look more and more like him. I know everyone says _we_ look alike, but… no one sees your father the way we do."

I think of this as my opportunity to finally figure out who he was in the First Order, what he did that was so terrible that I'm not allowed to know. "Why does everyone else here not like him after all these years?" I press. Obviously he probably won't turn his back on the life he's made for us here. I can't imagine my life without Chewie, or BB-8, or Uncle Finn and Uncle Poe, or Aunt Leia, or Threepio, or Artoo, and Papa knows that.

"Ava, you _know_ why," Mother sighs, pulling her own hair back into a half bun, her usual hairstyle. "He's a prisoner of war from the First Order."

"But I _don't_ , Mother." I can feel the frustration coming on. That's always been her answer. "I don't know what he did to make his sentence so large, and I think I'm old enough to know now."

"Ava, please. Not now." Mother shuts me down, her tone firm. She wraps an arm around my shoulders, leading me back home. "Let's just focus on your father's birthday. You know he always looks forward to your cakes."

Changing the subject? I try not to dwell on it too much, but I can already feel my mind wandering now that she's put the idea in my mind.

Mother and I are the only ones who ever celebrate his birthday. I remember his last milestone, his fortieth, when I was four and Mother was twenty-five. I'm sitting on his lap and Mother presents him with a new tunic. I present him with cake icing that I smear all over our faces. Mother still has those pictures on her datapad: me kissing his cheek while grabbing his face, Mother giving him a proper kiss, Papa giving a hint of a smile. I remember him lamenting about how old he's getting, and Mother going along with the joke.

But I still want to learn more about the truth. No one else will tell me—I'm pretty sure Mother keeps them quiet if I'm ever curious enough to ask. But it can't be terrible enough to make me stop loving him… right?

Papa is on his datapad, presumably looking through old pictures because it's honestly one of the only things he can do on his own. I wonder how he's able to take it sometimes… all these days alone, nothing to do, nowhere to go. I imagine it to be so boring, and I wonder what goes on in his mind. I know he loves me, but he's such a man of few words that I often wonder about his past. Mother says he had a terrible childhood, kind of like she had alone on Jakku.

"And that's why we try to make the best life we can for you," she always reminds me. "Don't you dare forget it."

Life alone, scavenging on Jakku, where it was too hot to fathom, or a childhood where your parents never loved you and trained you to be a perfect soldier? I couldn't imagine which one was worse. Apparently that led to their need to be the best damn parents possible—and I loved them unconditionally for it.

"There are my girls," Papa sighs and stands, and that always makes Mother beam. It's what he always calls us, whenever we're together. It's a bit embarrassing, but at least he only does it at home.

Mother greets him with a brief kiss, and I embrace him with a grin. "Guess what?" I ask, but I'm too excited to keep it in. "I practiced shooting again today. Practically perfect marks!"

"She gets it from you, Tage." Mother pats my shoulder. She's still using the special nickname she has for him, the one she only uses when it's just the three of us, or I'm assuming when they're alone together. "I was never that good at shooting a blaster."

"No, but you're a decent sparring partner," he allows, his arm still around me, though he's looking at Mother. "You're almost starting to get the upper hand."

"That's only because you're getting older, darling," Mother teases, kissing his cheek before settling in hers and Papa's room, to change into something more comfortable, I know.

I notice Papa take in when Mother says he's getting older. His slight smile fades, and I notice a few of the wrinkles around his eyes. His hair is greying at the temples, and he's growing out a bit of stubble, still debating whether or not to grow it out into a full beard. It's then I realize how the age difference between the three of us really affects him—usually Mother and I don't think about it. But given he's the oldest, he probably thinks about it differently. He probably thinks about what he's leaving behind when he's gone, or how he sometimes points out that Mother could have always done better than him. It's like he doesn't see how great a person he is, even if he doesn't wield a blaster anymore or fight with the First Order.

But he looks back at me, pulling me in closer. I offer him another grin. "Near perfect marks are promising at your age," he says, and a hint of that smile is back. And then I notice that I have his lips, full and pink. Mother says they're perfect for kissing. Maybe she's right when she says I look more like him than her. I only figured our hair was the only thing we had in common.

"Thanks, Papa." I contemplate asking him about his past. I know he thinks I'm old enough to learn about using the right weapon, about a bit of the politics of the First Order, and why he agreed so strongly with them. Maybe it's the right time?

"What's on your mind, Ava?" he asks. He has this acute sense of reading Mother and me, from when one of us hasn't eaten, to when we're trying to keep a secret from him. It's a bit unnerving, especially now.

I take a deep breath. I know he rarely speaks about what's happened in his past (and I'm not even sure if he's _allowed_ to—no one will talk to me about it), but I'm fourteen. I think I'm old enough to handle it, and I keep telling myself that. "I asked Mother about you today," I start, looking down at my free hand, clenched in a fist at my side. "About… then. And why you're still here."

I notice him swallow, thinking of how to answer. "Ava, I've gone over this with your mother and with General Organa, because you'd inevitably be curious," he says after a moment. "It's not my place to tell you anything—they've made that very clear and I've done my damnedest putting up with my limitations all these years. I'm not going to start breaking any rules now."

"Why not?" I ask, because I can see the frustration in those deep, green eyes of his. I know those eyes have seen so much, and yet I can only get a glimpse into his past. Reading his mind is useless, says Mother, because even though Papa isn't Force-sensitive like we are, he's learned how to completely block us off. He wants to tell me, though, I can _feel_ that. I just have to get it out of him.

Papa places his hands on my shoulders. He still has a rather strong grip, even after all these years. "Everyone here has been waiting for me to screw something up, for an excuse to get rid of me. I'll be _damned_ if that happens and I lose you." There's worry in his eyes now. That certainly wasn't my intention. I know he knows that, but his intensity makes me shrink.

I can feel myself shake, unexpected tears in my eyes. I didn't think it was that serious… "I-I understand," I murmur, and sensing my unease, Papa kisses my forehead. "I'm just going to go freshen up and check on Mother."

I lie about seeing Mother, but Papa lets me go anyway. Instead I take my hair out of its usual braid and take deep, calming breaths when I enter my room. I open the blinds, the greenery helping me think about something else, _anything_ else, because the one person who's always been so honest with me can't give me the answers I want. I'm not a child anymore—or rather, I'm growing more and more into an adult.

After shaking my hair out, I look in the mirror. Uncle Finn says I'm a splitting image of my mother. And I guess he's right; I have her almond-shaped, hazel eyes, the same smattering of freckles across my nose and at my temples. The same curl to my hair. The same nose.

But I look deeper, and I realize that Mother is _also_ correct: I definitely look a lot like Papa. Not just our bright hair, but I'm noticing the baby fat from my face shedding, showing off the beginnings of those distinctive cheekbones. The same pink, plump lips. The shape of my eyebrows. The shape of my chin, even.

All I can think is: I'm their daughter. I can tell that sometimes I'm treated differently because of who my father was, a person I can't even get to know in some vain attempt to protect me. And no one will even let me know how they fell in love in this sea of chaos, in this war so fueled by hatred. It doesn't make much sense.

I'm lying in bed absently, staring at the ceiling with too many thoughts running through my head when I hear Mother through the intercom. "Ava, time for dinner."

There's an eerie silence at the dinner table when we all sit down. I'm picking at my food, not very hungry after what Papa told me, noticing that I can only hear Mother refilling Papa's wine, or utensils clinking on plates. It reminds me of our family dinners, when we eat with Aunt Leia and Chewie and everyone for Life Day. So many of us, but when Papa decides to attend, everyone is silent, knowing that they're not allowed to speak of politics. No one is close to my age, so usually I'm relegated to antics with BB-8 and Artoo, or I'm with Papa, since no one seems to want to speak more than two words to him. It's been too long—why is everyone so cold toward him?

Halfway through the meal, Papa silently reaches over and takes Mother's right hand with his left, squeezing gently. I pretend not to notice by taking a sip of blue milk. Sometimes they have this secret language, only told through gesture. I know it goes deeper than an acknowledgement that they love each other, but I still haven't deciphered it. I watch Mother's jaw clench slightly when Papa stares at her, like he's apologizing for something, for anything, for everything. His eyes convey this unfathomable helplessness and for a moment I can't believe this man is the same as my strong-willed father, who's only cried _once_ , when I was born (according to Mother).

Mother brings Papa's hand up and kisses his knuckles gently. It's like I'm not even there. I'm witnessing this terribly intimate moment between the two of them, but it's such a clear declaration of love that I immediately take back every doubt I've had about their relationship.

If they're not going to give me the answers I need, I'm just going to have to find them out for myself.

I just need a little bit of help from a good friend.

* * *

Papa isn't allowed to leave our place after a certain time every night, unless Aunt Leia makes an exception, which happens very rarely. Which means Mother usually stays in with him, unless she's off on those missions.

And I can sneak out if I'm careful, and they've gone to bed.

I shower, kiss them goodnight, and pretend that it's dark in my room, when really I'm dressing in dark colors to sneak out. It's not like it's the first time I've attempted it, and I'm hoping not to get caught—like that one time I wanted to try a flight simulator and Papa had come into the front room looking for a drink, or those few times when Mother caught me because I didn't wait long enough for her to fall asleep, and she must have sensed I was trying to leave. And if I get caught tonight, that's definitely not going to stop me from trying to find answers.

Tonight, though, when I use the Force to open doors, Mother isn't calling my name sharply. Datapad tucked under my arm, I stealthily make it out to the meeting place.

BB-8 is already waiting for me. I can't help but smile—he's always been my partner-in-crime for sneaking about, ever since I can remember, when we snuck under different ships, trying to hide out from my parents so we could keep having fun.

" _What are we doing tonight?_ " he beeps, and I start leading him around the outskirts of the Base.

"We're going to look for any files concerning my father," I explain lowly. "No one is telling me what I want to know." We live around the perimeter of the Base—Mother's idea, thinking it would be for everyone's well-being if Papa was kind of away from everyone else. Tonight, I'm going to figure out why.

BB-8 doesn't beep anything back in return, but I can see him looking down a bit as he rolls alongside me. I know I can try asking him what I need to know, but he might give me the same answer as everyone else. I need the facts.

We pass the X-Wing hangars, the MedBay, the training grounds… I try and stay out of the light, just in case anyone wants to ask what I'm doing out so late. I don't exactly have an alibi, given my propensity for sneaking around, being mischievous. They say I get it from Mother.

We pass Aunt Leia's quarters, getting close now. I crouch low. "You don't suppose I'd have to hack into Aunt Leia's datapad, do you?" I ask him. BB-8 shakes his head.

" _There's a mainframe computer that holds everything on file on this base. I can get into it,_ " he assures, and of course I believe him. We sneak into the main corridor and BB-8 leads me to a well-secured door. It definitely needs codes, and BB-8 starts getting to work, while I'm on lookout.

" _Disabled alarms_ ," he narrates. I nod. I know how risky this is, but I'm trying to think that, if we get caught, and if I just tell the truth, maybe I'll still get the answers I want. It's not like I'm trying to get this information because I believe in my father's First Order politics—growing up on the Resistance Base ensured that.

BB-8 tells me he's starting to get past different access codes, but my mind wanders as my eyes do, thinking about that intimate look my parents shared at dinner. I think the last time I witnessed a look like that was at their wedding.

Then again, I was only around four. But I remember Mother handing me a basket while in her draping, beautiful, simple white dress, and I must have thrown those flower petals everywhere. I remember Papa staring proudly at her in a clean suit. I remember the fluffy pink dress I wore, BB-8 keeping the rings on him until they said their vows. Aunt Leia officiating their union. It had taken place just outside where we lived, on a gorgeous day, and I remember it only being the five of us. I couldn't understand most of what they were saying, but I remember it taking a while. Mother cried, but she was smiling, and I remember that being confusing. They said they loved each other, BB-8 gave the rings, they kissed, and that night I stayed with Aunt Leia.

I wished I remembered more of it. Now I _want_ to remember their vows, to get a better understanding of who they were, who they are now. Maybe it wouldn't make me so curious about that look, or about their need to be so hushed all of a sudden when I start asking questions.

Maybe I wouldn't be resorting to this.

" _We're in_." BB-8 nudges me, and I shake my head. I can't believe I got so lost in those few moments. I follow him in and hand him my datapad.

"If you could transfer _anything_ you find on my father in here, that'd be great." I'm still whispering, but he gets to work immediately. I pat his head and he hums appreciatively. He knows how grateful I am for this. Honestly, he's probably my best friend, given no one here is really around my age, or that they avoid me because of who my father was.

He's done in about a minute, and I'm very surprised. How can there be such little information on someone who's lived here for so long? The whole thing gets even stranger. I take my datapad, confused. "That's it?" I ask.

" _I'm sure_ ," he says. " _Now let's get out of here before we're caught_."

"Right." I move out, and we sneak out as if we were never there in the first place. We saunter back to Uncle Poe's quarters, and I reach down to hug him. "Thanks for this, really."

" _I'll be here when this blows up_." But before I can question him about what he means by that, he's already moving in to shut himself down for the night. When it blows up? I look down at my datapad, uncertain, before trekking back home.

Do I want to look into whatever this is? I keep telling myself that it won't be that terrible, but if everyone is putting up this front about Papa's past, is it okay that I remain ignorant, if it means we're all still happy in the morning? I sneak in, changing with my eyes still on my datapad. There's this void I feel needs to be filled—I can feel it so much that it's taken all my willpower not to look at all of it right in this moment.

Screw it.

As soon as I'm in bed I decide to open up those files. I need to know _everything_.

Why is my birth certificate here, I wonder? I open that first, as it's the most familiar. Girl, length, weight. Species: human. Eyes: hazel. Hair: red. Mother: Rey. Father: … redacted? My name. First: Ava.

Last… redacted, too. But I'm Ava _Hux_. Mother reminds me of this as often as possible. Everyone on the Base knows my name—my _full_ name. So why do the official records say I don't have one?

There's no record of my parents getting married. The last file on Mother doesn't state that she now has a last name, which is strange because whenever anyone calls her "Miss Rey," she _always_ corrects them to "Mrs. Hux" instead. It makes no sense! It's like Papa never even existed!

Curiosity keeps eating at me. I move further back, to a file about a year before I was born.

I read about Mother being rescued from an unknown planet, which I've never heard about. Shouldn't that be something I know, as her daughter? She was on that planet for about a hundred days! It's part of her life experience, and not once in all the years I've been around has she mentioned it! What's happening here? I keep reading on.

The file before is about Mother being captured by the First Order. How did I not know about this, either? By this point I'm sitting up in bed, completely engrossed in my reading. How the hell is that normal, to keep something so huge from me? Mother captured by the First Order? It's dated around the same time Mother was also stranded on an unknown planet.

Captured by General Armitage Hux and his troops.

It can't be. I know my mouth is completely agape and I can't feel my arms because I'm so numb, but with shaking fingers I make myself read my father's file. I can do this. I _have_ to do this. This is for my past, for my future. This is what I've always wanted to know. I'm old enough to stop being treated this way. I tell myself I can handle it.

General Armitage Hux. A First Order _General_. How did I not know his rank?

Deceased— _deceased?_ —the same day Mother was captured? But he's my _father_. He's been a Resistance prisoner of war for fifteen years. He's very much alive, sleeping in the room across from mine with Mother beside him. They _love_ each other. They _married_ each other.

Then how did they go from him capturing her for the First Order to where they are today? That unknown planet has to have something to do with it. I keep reading.

Anomaly in space… shuttle destruction… That's all that's on the file dealing with this mysterious planet. I move further back in his past. Born on Arkanis (the rainy planet?), son to Commandant Brendol Hux, his mother's name redacted. I assumed he'd been coerced into being in the First Order when he was older, not completely raised in it. It was his _life_ up until then. I read about the children he ordered to become soldiers, the terrible things he had to do to become a General. There are tears threatening to spill over, and it's making it more difficult to read. I wipe my eyes.

And then I read about Starkiller Base.

The Resistance talks about it as the first big victory against the First Order, how Uncle Poe bravely led his squadron to help destroy it, while Uncle Finn disabled the shields while his ulterior motive was to save Mother, and Mother first learned how to use the Force against Kylo Ren. We still celebrate the anniversary of its destruction; it's _legendary_ here.

But then I read that Starkiller Base was Papa's biggest creation, his greatest work. _He_ was the one who ordered the destruction of the Hosnian System. He gave the order to simultaneously destroy five planets, billions of lives… He _wanted_ the New Republic gone so much that he was willing to—

How could Mother have fallen for him, knowing all of that? No _wonder_ everyone here hates him! Uncle Finn, especially, given that he used to work under him! No wonder when everyone looks at me, it's like it's with guilt and sorrow. They feel _sorry_ for me, because I'm the daughter of the man who wanted to destroy everything they stand for. I throw my datapad aside, tears streaking down my face. I have to resist the urge to cry out, because I know if Papa checks up on me I'm going to scream at him, use my powers on him, probably. I can already see my brush lifting, not of my own volition. It could get worse—I could be lifting this bed!

I _need_ to calm down. I'm so angry— _so angry_ —but I can't confront him yet.

BB-8 was right. It's going to blow up soon. I want to tear my sheets and dye my hair and change my name and take away everything that has to do with Papa. But I know he's not the same man from then—he's caring and considerate and when I look at him I know how much he loves Mother and me. I can't see him as a man who would do such terrible things—only a heartless man would do something like that.

It suddenly makes even more sense, why he's not allowed out after a certain time, or why he can't wield a weapon, or why he can't know anything the Resistance is doing. He is—or was, anyway—particularly dangerous to their cause. I lie back down and pull my sheets up to my chin tightly, lip quivering as I watch tears darken my sheets. I hate how torn I am, between how much I love Papa and what happened in the past. I hate that I had to find out about him this way, because they were too embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable talking about it with me.

I dream about red planets blowing up. I dream I'm in the middle of a forest with towering trees, and I have no idea where this is in the galaxy. I dream about BB-8 being far taller than me, and for some reason it all plays out in one continuous, uninterrupted sleep, probably because I'm so exhausted from sneaking about.

I wake with red-rimmed eyes. I hear someone cooking breakfast, and the first thing I want to do is burst in there and demand what the planet was, why Papa has officially been declared dead for fifteen years. I want my answers now, and I can feel this when I leap quickly out of bed and toss my sleeping clothes off to change, strewing them across the floor. My hair is still in knots, not brushed, when I see Papa with his datapad in one hand, caf in the other, at the table like any other normal morning. I try to picture him yelling at his troops, a scowl on his face, but it just isn't clear to me. He doesn't exactly smile for pictures, unless it's candid, and even though he can be stern and silent, like now, with his gaze so focused on his reading, he's got this softer side. I see it every day. And I'm not sure what changed that.

"More caf?" Mother asks, a kettle in her hand. She hasn't noticed I've entered yet.

Without looking up, Papa holds up his mug, and Mother fills it up. He's always liked it black, and he still won't let me drink it. Says it stunts my growth, but I'm about as tall as Mother, and she even towers over Aunt Leia sometimes.

She runs a hand through his hair, and when she looks up, her eyes widen when they fix on me, finally. "Ava, dear, good morning. I was worried you were sick."

I have to pretend everything is okay; I can feel that this isn't the right time to ask about what I found. I force a terse smile at Mother and kiss her cheek, then Papa's, before grabbing some fruit for breakfast, sighing. "Training…" I remember. "Damn it, you're right." Maybe I shouldn't have snuck out so late—Mother and Papa and Aunt Leia can work me pretty hard. It's then I notice Papa isn't in his usual tunic; he's wearing something more comfortable so we can run and spar together, and Mother's hair isn't in one half bun, it's in three. Why do I forget this? This is my routine nearly every day.

"Language," Mother warns, placing the pot of caf down. Now that I think about it, she doesn't drink it, either. I remember her mentioning the very smell of it used to make her nauseous when she was pregnant. Papa doesn't drink that much, does he?

I blush. "Sorry. I just forgot."

"It's not like you to be spacey." Mother raises a brow. "We're running late as is, and you're nowhere near ready," she sighs. "Tage, your help is needed."

Finally, Papa looks up, and I hear him sigh loudly. It's seriously annoying me, and I can't place it! I must still be reeling from those files. "Ava, I've stated time and time again that if you're going to keep your hair long like that that you need to show me that you can maintain it." But he gets up and wraps an arm around me as I'm finishing my breakfast. I automatically lean into it as he draws me closer, leading me back to my room.

He takes in my clothes from last night strewn about the room, my datapad on the floor, my unmade bed, and he knows something is up. "You're better behaved and cleaner than this," he states, picking up my brush. What's terrible is that I can't even be mad at him as he's working through my hair with careful fingers, because his touch is so soothing and I've always loved that he can actually _style_ hair, as opposed to Mother, who can only do buns. He's always done my hair, now that I think about it, and I wonder now if it's out of boredom or love, or one of those other emotions he must not have felt back when he was a General.

"It was a long night," I reply vaguely, as Papa starts braiding my hair.

He hums, knowing I'm only telling half of the truth. Even after all these years, his perception is still impeccable. I close my eyes, falling back into this trap of relaxing under his touch, so gentle… "We're all going for a run, then we'll spar, and your mother and General Organa will take it from there," he explains, though he knows I'm well aware of our routine. I haven't completely forgotten it—but there's so much going on in my mind that I can't help but push such mundane tasks to the back of my mind.

Papa ties my braid and kisses my forehead, helping me stand. "You're lucky this isn't the First Order military, or you'd be punished and demoted," he teases, walking to the door. "You have a few minutes. We need to get our day going."

It takes all my willpower to not demand how he ran his troops. I clench my fists and jaw as he leaves, then I get ready, haphazardly tossing my clothes and datapad on my unmade bed to deal with later.

* * *

After several kilometers, a sparring match with Papa, and Jedi training with Mother, and I'm ready to collapse. I'm so run down that the whole time, and I don't think about the information BB-8 found, or the fact that my mother and father have been keeping such huge secrets from me. Instead, these thoughts are pushed away as Papa demands that I keep up with him when he knocks me down.

"I'm almost fifty. You shouldn't be falling behind," he warns, holding a hand out for me to take so he can help me up.

I groan more than usual, trying to match his attacks with my own defense. I can use the Force, and I wonder why it's so difficult for me today.

Aunt Leia gives me the answer. I know she doesn't always have a lot of time to train me, given all she does for the Resistance, but if I need something answered, usually she's there for me, in her own way. I remember crying after Mother and Papa's wedding because I wanted to stay with them at home, and at the time I couldn't understand why they didn't want me there, but instead of trying to soothe me with false promises, she distracted me by letting me run around her place, trying on old dresses, letting me jump on her bed. I knocked out, with probably a huge grin on my face.

Now we're meditating—or rather, I'm trying to meditate and she's getting a bit exasperated with my lack of focus.

"Something's on your mind," she states, arms crossed. Even at seventy-four, she still intimidates me, and though Papa can be pretty standoffish when it comes to everyone else on the Base, with Aunt Leia he's always civil, respectful, even.

"It's nothing," I lie, keeping my eyes closed, my toes curling.

"Then lift that boulder over there," she challenges, pointing her chin at a rather large rock in the near distance. "It shouldn't be a problem if your mind is clear."

Jaw clenching, I stand and hold my arm out. Mother says clear, grounded stance, relaxed movements, deep breathing. I remember her hand near my hip, telling me to breathe as low as possible. In… out. In… out. Hand up slowly, eyes opened, brow not furrowed. Remember to breathe.

The boulder moves, but then it all comes back to me: Starkiller Base, unknown planet, my official lack of a last name. Who was my father? What happened to my mother?

Who am _I_?

"Thought so." I can feel the smirk in Aunt Leia's voice, and she places a soothing hand on my shoulder, looking up at me. "Now, tell me what's going on at home."

I know she's expecting me to talk about something my father did, but I can't let Aunt Leia know about BB-8 and me sneaking in to retrieve those files on him. She probably wouldn't forgive me! I can't have Aunt Leia hate me; everyone else here acts so weird around me because of Papa and my flaming orange hair. "It's… it's not really _home_ that's the problem," I start, looking down at my hands. I can't let her think that Papa is a bad father—I know he's not. But something about his past keeps gnawing at me, and I can't make that connection between that man and the man who sparred with me this morning.

"It's the guilt you feel after sneaking into places you weren't allowed, right?" Her hand rubs my arm soothingly.

I furrow my brows. "What? You… _know_?" Then why didn't she catch us, or reprimand us?

"I didn't think you'd be sneaking into a mainframe for any Resistance plans. But nothing gets past me." She waves her other hand, that smirk still evident on her face, her wrinkles only making it more prominent. "So… they still haven't told you, then. I told Rey this wasn't going to end well."

I'm in such shock from this realization that I hardly realize my mouth is open until I hear myself breathing through my mouth. "Why didn't _you_ tell me?" I ask instead, after a few moments. She could have made this much less painful!

"Because it wasn't my place to tell. It was your parents'."

I decide that she probably should tell me, then, if she's going to be straightforward about it, now that I know. "Why is Papa considered dead?" It's the question bugging me the most.

"Your mother didn't want The First Order to know your father was still alive, after what happened between them on that planet," she explains.

So this was _Mother's_ idea to make this official, not Aunt Leia's? I start to shake, and Aunt Leia moves to fully face me, her hands on my arms to hold me in place. "I feel like I don't know them anymore." My voice is hardly above a whisper, because I'm trying to keep myself from crying.

"Ava." I can never understand how Aunt Leia's voice can be both soothing and stern at the same time. "Your parents have their reasons for keeping this all a secret. But that doesn't mean that because they lied to you then, that they don't love you. Maybe before, they were those people in the files. But they're also your parents. If they didn't love you, your father wouldn't even be here."

Wouldn't even be here? But as I'm about to ask her about that, Aunt Leia starts talking again. "It's still not my responsibility to give you all the answers. They'll let you know soon enough."

"What, when they _trust_ me? How long will that be? When I'm Mother's age? Papa's?"

Chuckling, Aunt Leia moves a hand up to rest on my cheek. "You're your mother's daughter, all right. But if you want the answers, I'm not the one responsible for giving them to you. If you're curious enough to get those files, then you should be able to face them. Isn't your father's birthday in a few days, anyway?"

"It is," I sigh. "I helped fashion a jacket for him, but I feel like it isn't enough for such a landmark birthday." At the same time, I really don't know what to get someone who can't leave the base—so of course I keep going in circles.

"You're a smart girl; you'll figure it out," she assures. I can only hope I prove her right one day, because I _know_ she's not just talking about my choice in gifts.

* * *

When I get home later, I notice Papa smoking outside our door. He's told me in the past that he is (or _was_ ) a periodical. He only does it in times of stress. And I suppose if you've spent the last fifteen years doing nothing more than raising a child, I can sympathize. I watch his lips curl around the end of it, the smoke escaping with every exhale like a sigh as the wisps disappear in the air.

"I thought you quit," I say, and it comes out much less angry than intended. The last time I'd seen him do it I was ten. I watched him through the window, remembering that intense look in his eyes, where I wondered just what was going through his mind to make him stare with such a directness. Now I know he was likely contemplating his worth on this base, whether or not he regretted being here. I watched until Mother beckoned me away.

"I thought I did, too," he allows, shrugging. He finally moves his gaze to me. "You've been rather off today, my darling. There's something you're not willing to share just yet."

How Papa isn't Force-sensitive, I'll never know. That incredible way he's able to read faces is scary, particularly when I'm in trouble, or when I'm trying to hide something. "Not yet," I admit. Because right now it just doesn't feel like the right time. Not with Mother not around. I brush past him. "I'm going to settle in and help Mother with dinner."

Strangely Mother doesn't ask any questions, other than how my time with Aunt Leia was. I give a vague answer and set the table, annoyed at her content smile and low humming as she spoons soup into bowls. I pour blue milk, but I'm glaring at her, feeling my lips purse.

When Papa enters, Mother expects a kiss on the lips, but after a smoke, he kisses her cheek instead. She shakes her head, and we eat silently. Eerily silently, like they're expecting me to say something. I listen to the quiet clinks of spoons against bowls, the occasional slurping from Mother's lips. Papa murmurs a small comment of praise, and Mother smiles. I offer nothing. The hand on my lap clenches into a tight fist. The silent gazes. The looks of knowing that I could not decipher until now. The lies. The hidden files.

I look up at Papa, and try to picture a murderer.

"I know about Starkiller Base," I confess halfway through my soup.

Papa slowly puts his spoon down, his face straight. "You snuck out last night," he accuses. But that's not the point. I don't care about the trouble I'm getting into; I just need to _know_.

"I know about Starkiller Base," I repeat, looking him down. "And I know about my redacted name, your death certificate, and your lack of a marriage certificate. Is any of this even _real_?"

Mother places her spoon down. "Ava, that's enough," she warns. But when I say it, I can't stop. There's the truth and I need to know how they thought it wouldn't hurt me, hurt _them_ in the end.

"I'm _nobody_. I don't have a father, according to those files. Papa has been dead for fifteen years, apparently. He captured you, Mother. _What happened on that planet?_ " I demand. The table begins to shake a bit.

"You're not ready," Mother tries, raising her voice. The table stops shaking and I know it's Mother's doing. Papa hasn't moved a muscle. "You demand and throw tantrums. You want to bottle in your emotions and let them burst in an attempt to get what you want. We can talk, Ava, when you're ready to grow up."

I want to scream, throw my soup, let Mother know about my frustrations. But then I'm only proving her right, and I'll never know the details. It takes all my willpower to just clench my fists and ask, "May I be excused? I'll do the dishes when everything is done." If I'm out here any longer I know things will only get more difficult. Using the Force, I know, means being more responsible, more in control of how I feel, and that's why I can't meditate properly, or really move things. Everything is unaligned, shaky, confusing.

"You may," Mother dismisses, waving a hand. I can't get out of there fast enough; I don't even acknowledge Papa's face, or Mother's disappointed frown. As soon as the door closes to my room I clench my fists, debating. How good it would feel, to scream and throw things, to destroy this whole room.

Instead I clean. I clean through my frustrations, slam things down with more gusto than usual. The only thing I don't pick up is my datapad, remembering the contents BB-8 helped me get last night, the truths my parents have been hiding from me. I sit on my bed and draw my knees up to my chest, watching the sun set with a heavy sigh.

I don't know how long I'm sitting there before Papa comes in, a cup of blue milk in hand. In his usual, silent way, he just sits beside me with a sigh, before handing me the cup. When I take a sip, he murmurs, "We were going to tell you in a few years. But I should have figured your curiosity was as insatiable as your mother's."

"It wasn't _just_ me," I admit. "BB-8 helped me get into the files, and Aunt Leia turned a blind eye to it all. It's like they wanted me to find out, too."

When I turn to face him, he looks almost… distraught. It's like that strange look I noticed last night, when Mother took his hand, only, suddenly… worse. Like the light in those eyes is gone.

"Papa?" I ask, scooting in a bit closer.

"I never thought I'd see that look from you."

Why is he being cryptic? I furrow my brow. "What look?"

"Everyone I've ever known has been disappointed with me at one point or another," he explains, leaning back. "Your mother is no exception. And you're giving me that look now." The chuckle he gives is grim, like he's laughing because that's the only thing he can do at this point. "I should have known better than thinking I could get it right, for once."

"You don't hate me, do you?" I feel my voice quiver, the lump thick in my throat before the tears start to shed.

"What?" He takes the cup from my hand, setting it down on my nightstand, before pulling me into one of those embraces, the ones I would seek out when I had a nightmare, or when I've been out for too long. "Ava, my darling, I could never _hate_ you," he assures, rubbing my back slowly. "I wake every morning amazed to even _know_ you're mine."

"I just wanted to know," I sob, unable to hold it in anymore. "I wanted answers, and now I'm more confused than ever."

"I know, Ava, I know." He kisses the top of my head. But he doesn't treat me silently, shut me down, like Mother. I start to realize that she wanted to keep up this impression that we were perfect. That we _are_ perfect. We can't keep pretending anymore. "I know I mentioned this might get me in trouble, but you've already started looking for the answers. If I say anything you don't want to hear, you can always stop me."

Papa tells me about Starkiller Base first, because it's the only thing I can kind of understand. He confesses to planning its designs based on the Death Star, to using it to destroy the Hosnian System and the home of the New Republic. He _wanted_ to. He knew it would be a powerful move for the First Order, to ensure their victory. It's the hardest thing to hear, to know my own father _liked_ that he'd killed so many.

"Do you regret it?" I ask shakily. I feel like I need to know all of it—how he felt, what he'd been thinking at the time.

"No," he admits quickly. "You won't understand, given you've been raised with the Resistance." And he doesn't elaborate outside of that, and moves on to the next year, the recovery.

The mission.

"Supreme Leader Snoke personally asked me to capture your mother for his gain. I did my job." I force myself to keep listening, to hear it all. I figure one day Mother will tell me her side, which I know I'll be able to handle much more, but for now, I'm grateful Papa is so willing to share. "Our shuttle reached some sort of anomaly while we were in lightspeed, and before I knew it, we were the sole survivors on some damned unknown planet in some unknown system."

My eyes widen, because they've never been explicit with how they met. It's always just, they had differences when they met, and were forced to be around each other, before they realized that, well… maybe they were right for each other. I didn't realize that they had to survive alone.

It makes me wonder if, in any other situation, they'd be with each other. If I would have even existed had that tragedy not befallen them, just to bring them together. I don't mention it; he has too much to tell, too much to think about as is.

He produces another cigarette, from his breastpocket. "Open the window, darling," he orders, and I'm too afraid to tell him to go outside, so I do as I'm told. I turn back to him, watching him light it without a word, with slightly shaky fingers.

"Why do you hate talking about that planet, if it's where you and Mother fell in love?" I ask, shivering as the breeze starts to hit my skin. Closing my eyes, I silently hope that it wasn't the wrong question. Something inside me tells me it might be.

"I wish you'd come into this galaxy under better circumstances," he says vaguely, and I have to think about what he means.

Oh… how awkward.

Biting my lip, I sit beside him again. "You and your mother certainly deserve better than this confined life, than me."

"That's absurd." I lean my head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the smell. "Mother always says I look more like you, you know."

"She _would_ say that, wouldn't she?" I watch a smirk form around the end of his cigarette, before he exhales. His eyes don't meet mine. "She was pregnant, you know. When we were rescued. No one knew it at the time."

Papa doesn't take me for a child, doesn't shy around the strangeness of it all. I'm too shocked to even _think._

Except the one question permeating my mind.

"Did I… ruin your life?" I have to ask it. I need to know.

"No, my darling, no…" He pulls me in for another embrace, and I feel those arms squeeze tighter, hold me closer than before. "On the contrary, Ava, you _saved_ my life."

"I… what?" It makes no sense. He had to stay here, _raise_ me, while Mother was always off gallivanting in battles for the Resistance cause. He has so many limitations, not just as a father, but as someone residing here, and _I_ saved _him_? "Papa, what are you talking about?"

He exhales again. I watch the smoke curl up to the ceiling, then disappear.

"It was your mother, too. She struck a deal with your aunt." He never says Aunt Leia by name. She's either "your aunt" or "General Organa." "I stay here and raise you as a prisoner of war, or… execution."

Despite the smell, I hug him tighter. I'm so close to telling him to stop, that Mother was right, that I can't handle it because I'm not old enough. I'm too shocked to talk, now, too.

"Obviously, you know what path I chose," he continues, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "And yes, we did all decide collectively that all records of me from here on out will be erased. In order to raise you properly, I needed to disappear."

"So… according to the First Order, you've been dead for fifteen years," I conclude lowly. "So no one would find you, and they would never suspect that you had a child, too."

"Yes, my darling, that's right," he replies. "Your mother and I did it to ensure your future. I know it's difficult, to read those files, all that eradicated information. To know that technically, your mother and I aren't married, but we're devoted to each other. To know that, inside, you _are_ my child, even if what's recorded of your birth doesn't say so. You have to learn to not give a damn what the files say about you, and _feel_ what's right. You can't possibly think your mother and I don't love you, Ava."

I don't. I shake my head and bury it against his chest, and I can't even tell that I'm crying until the tears hit his shirt. "I know," I sob. "I know. I love you, Papa." It feels so good to say that, because he's right. I _am_ Ava Hux, just as Mother is Rey Hux, files be damned.

His arms wrap tight around me, and I let myself go. Everything about him _feels_ right; how could I have ever doubted this life he's built for us? His past is his past, I try to tell myself. It's going to take me a while to not be angry about everything else he's done, but I shouldn't be too angry about something I can't change. If I just take it one day at a time, maybe it'll all stop hurting. Maybe I'll start to understand a bit more.

"Will you do something for me?" he asks. I feel his lips against the top of my head.

"Yeah, of course," I reply. It's muffled.

His fingers stoke gently through my hair. "I need you to tell your mother you love her. You don't have to apologize, but tell her that, at least."

Slowly I pull away. "Does she even want to talk to me right now? I was so… terrible at dinner." I can't believe I'm shaking. Why am I so scared to do this?

"You're a _teenager_. I'm sure she understands," he says, reasonably. I can get behind this. I can do this. Slowly but surely, we might get back to that state of happiness, that place we once were. I know it's a strange sentiment, that nothing will be the same now that I know how they met, how Papa did all those terrible things so willingly…

We can get through this.

I nod, and then he starts to shift, moving away. Which means I have to do this now.

"Thank you," I say meekly, shifting to sit on my hands for a few moments.

He kisses my forehead. "You'll be fine, Ava. Good night."

"Good night," I repeat. After he leaves, I slowly undo my braid, get ready for bed. Maybe she'll be more susceptible if I act the part of a good daughter, ready to face the new day.

Because when I enter hers and Papa's room, it's just her, on the bed, meditating in her nightgown. She turns when I enter, and instead of ignoring me, she smiles.

"Hello, darling," she says, calmly, and pats the spot beside her on the bed. Obediently I sit beside her, my hands in my lap.

I'm not sure what to say, so for a moment, I'm just gaping at her, mouth perched to speak, but the words die on my tongue. I don't want to tell her that Papa sent me. So I just wrap my arms around her, and like when I hugged Papa, when her soft hands brush through my hair, I'm too overwhelmed with emotion. I want these arms to always be open to me, no matter what happens. I want to know that no matter what, this is home, right here, with them, no matter how we got here. "I love you," I utter against her neck, and it's like I'm a child again, and she's taking me up in the _Falcon_ with a smile on her face and me on her knee, excited yet protected.

Mother pulls back, and I watch the corners of her eyes crinkle, her wide smile taking up her face. She pulls me back and strokes my cheek with her thumb. "Oh, Ava, I love you, too," she gushes, and even though we're not saying it, she knows that I'm sorry for snapping, and she's a bit sorry for never telling me what happened. I can feel it around me, inside me. Something in the Force.

"We'll bake the cake tomorrow, right?" I suggest.

"Of course, love. Like we always do," she replies, brushing my hair over my shoulder. "Get some rest."

Mother kisses my cheek, and sends me off. I sigh, because I really shouldn't have worried so much, when I'd been so angry. She's always been supportive of me, always offered me a hug or a smile or a reassurance, whenever I've needed it.

And I can't sleep that night, either, because nothing devolved into the worst-case scenario like I had expected, like BB-8 had prepared me for. I face the door, wondering what Mother and Papa are discussing, now that they're alone, now that I'm not there, until sleep finally catches up to me.

* * *

I wake early on Papa's birthday just days later—the cake prepared, my gift wrapped, still not knowing what Mother got for him (she always lets me know!). Of course, I'm still up later than Papa, because even though he's not on his First Order schedule anymore, he still follows his times to a T.

When I freshen my face and brush my hair (taking a bit of extra time to make it look nice), I change and bound into the family room. By the look on Mother and Papa's faces, things seem to still be rather peaceful, rather happy. Mother has set breakfast on the table for all of us, like any other normal morning, only the cake is set in the center of the table. I smile as I embrace Papa from behind as he's sitting in his chair, kissing the top of his head.

"Happy birthday!" I exclaim, and I feel Papa's hand on mine, squeezing gently. "You don't look a day over forty."

"Like you'd remember," he chuckles, reaching his head down to kiss my hand. "But thank you, my darling."

"What? I mean it!" I tease, moving to sit to his left. Mother, who's going around with her usual pot of caf, pats my shoulder. I can tell it's in agreement. When she sets the pot down, she sits to Papa's right after kissing his cheek, and we dig into breakfast. There's a bit of hesitance in everyone's voices, though, as if we're trying not to blow up at each other anymore.

But after we finish, Mother gestures to me as she clears the dishes. "Don't you want your father to open his gift?" she asks, and I perk up, nodding.

"Right!" I shoot out of my seat to retrieve it as I hear Mother ask, "Tage, more caf?", to which he agrees.

It's not really a special gift, now that I think about it. But when his eyes brighten at the sight of his new, grey coat (sans any affiliation to either side, as per usual), I beam. Papa reaches over to hug me, pressing a kiss to my cheek. He's still so warm…

"It's perfect, Ava, thank you."

Mother nods, reaching over to rub my arm. "Beautiful. I think he needed another one, too."

I don't see a gift in Mother's hands. "What did you get Papa?" I ask her.

I haven't seen her blush in quite a while, so it's a bit strange to see a bit of pink gracing her cheeks. "It's kind of cheesy…" she admits, facing him.

Papa, unreadable as ever, just blinks at her patiently. I can tell I'm just going to be the observer here.

Mother takes his hands, then takes a deep breath. She's not only blushing, she's… nervous about whatever she's going to say.

"Tage," she starts lowly, looking right at him. "I want to renew our vows."

Papa blinks again, but he's taken aback, even if I can't see his face. But I'm gaping, because I was _not_ expecting Mother to say that. Renew their marriage vows? I don't remember what they'd said at their first wedding (then again, I was a toddler). In fact… it's a great idea. I feel myself nodding, even if Mother isn't looking at me.

Instead of answering just yet, he reaches over and kisses Mother with more passion than I've seen in a while. Maybe I shouldn't even be here, but I definitely can't move. I just… _feel_ how in love they are. "Yes," he replies against her lips. "Yes, let's do that."

"Am I invited?" I chime in meekly, shrinking back so they can have their moment.

When they hear me, Mother starts chuckling, her hand moving up to cover her mouth. "Of course, darling!" she exclaims. I feel like she's trying to cover up her blush, too. "Oh, I'd love it if you made a speech, or gave us some thoughts."

That's a lot to put on a teenager. Then again, I'm a Jedi-in-training. My mother's daughter. The child of someone so prominent in the Resistance, and someone so prominent in the First Order. Normalcy has never been our style. "If you'd like…" I start hesitantly.

"It's a chance," Mother replies, "to start keeping things honest between the three of us. To bring us closer than we already are."

Papa nods in agreement, then turns to me. "No more secrets," he promises. His eyes, normally so unreadable, show me that he's actually going to try.

So I nod, and shift to wrap my arms tight around them both in a group hug. I feel Papa's hand on my shoulder, Mother's hand on my waist. She buries her face in the crook of my neck; he rests his chin atop my head. I'm in their arms, and it could be anywhere in the galaxy… it feels like _home_.

Yeah, we're not perfect. But we're the Hux family. And this is our new beginning.

 **I know I'm complete trash for naming their kid "Ava," but it just seemed too fitting. Hopefully you guys liked this.**

 **As always, reviews and comments are always appreciated!**


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